


Keep Me in Your Mind

by nameloc_ar_115



Series: Keep Me Alive [1]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: First Time, Frottage, M/M, Making Out, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, PTSS, Season/Series 13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-07 11:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13433976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameloc_ar_115/pseuds/nameloc_ar_115
Summary: It’s late. Past eleven on a Friday night. The timing is risky and inconvenient, something he’s relying on. Because if Lukedoesanswer andisunpreoccupied, then Spencer stands a chance.





	Keep Me in Your Mind

**Author's Note:**

> All titles taken from Khalid's "Keep Me," which I listened to obsessively while bingeing CM.

               Alvez is _infuriating_. His desk is spotless and orderly at all times—militaristic, just as Emily diagnosed. Current case files are the only items of clutter, and even those are transient, cleared away by the end of the workday.

               And so, it is _unfathomable_ that Luke should take so long readying himself to go home. He swivels in his chair, returning texts, reading emails, sporadically checking desk drawers, logging out of his computer, digging through his go-bag for his car keys.

               All done with a luxurious sense of careless leisure, of maddening self-entitlement. He's waiting on no one, and no one is waiting on him. So he believes.

               Meanwhile, Spencer debates hotly, internally, whether to follow him to the elevator or attempt an ambush in the parking lot. He chooses the course of sanity, instead deciding to wait for the office to clear.

               He chirps intermittent goodbyes to his teammates as they leave, pretending to be absorbed in the last-minute demands of his workspace. He aligns his books, separates files and articles into manageable stacks, tosses disposable coffee cups, and crumples obsolete Post-its that cling to his partition. 

               Prentiss is still finishing paperwork in her office, undergoing the requisite, after-hours grind that being Unit Chief entails, her desk lamp casting a warm glow through the open blinds. But her door’s closed, and he doesn’t require absolute solitude so much as privacy from eavesdroppers to do this.

               He slings his messenger bag over his shoulder, hands convulsing around the strap while he generates resolve.

               “Hey.” He clears his throat, more nervous tic than functional maneuver. “Do you have a minute?”

               Luke turns, shrugging into his jacket at last. “Yeah, sure. What’s up?”

               “Thank you.” The moment's too delicate for interruptions, the culmination of weeks’ worth of self-fortification, so he pushes on hurriedly. “I know what you did for me while I was inside. The strings you pulled with Shaw. For me.” He swallows, grip tightening on the strap, eyes crushing closed for a second, just a second. “I wouldn't have made it to trial. I know that. But if you hadn't done what you did, I wouldn't have survived long enough for the team to clear me.”

               “You don’t have to thank me,” Alvez murmurs, voice warm and sincere but eyes almost confrontational, like they're daring him to repeat those words, to cheapen Luke’s efforts down to a thank-you-you're-welcome transaction.

               Alvez clearly never expected him to find out, certainly doesn’t want any form of compensation for actions he deemed necessary and vital. That severe loyalty staggers Spencer, inwardly. His body remains still, but inside, his organs shift and displace, heart thundering in confoundment and agitation. 

               A little breathless, he continues, “I know what you did to him. After. The transfer.” He balls his hands inside his pants pockets, fisting the material against his thighs.

               Luke sighs, jaw working, muscles flexing at the hinge. “I wasn’t about to let him get away with it.” The rough, low utterance, the intimate undertone—but that’s ridiculous. The raw aggrievement only sounds personal because they're a team, a family, ties that are sacred to an ex-army agent.

               Spencer deflects, brows pinching together with faint unease. “His informant. The real reason he killed her.”

               Luke shakes his head, slow, measured, emphasizing the wrongness of Reid’s assumption. “He came after one of mine.”

               The silence seeps between them and cements. He feels integral to the patch of carpeting he’s standing on, rooted to. He’s worried he might never leave this spot.

               Alvez saves him, sends him a small smile, unencumbering, and wishes a “goodnight, Spencer” before leaving the office.

               _One of mine._

               _One of m—_

               _Of mine._

               _Mine._  

* * *

               Spencer pours coffee that overflows and burns. He hisses to himself, grabbing napkins to wipe his hand and the small counter in the breakroom. He gives up on caffeine. Already has the shakes, shouldn’t artificially induce more.

               He curls his hands in his pockets to quell the tremors. They’ll stop soon.

               Someone knocks on the doorframe, in fair warning, but he jumps all the same, despite the courtesy, whirling.

               “Sorry, sorry.” Luke raises his hands, pausing before he enters. It’s a taken-for-granted kindness, allowing Reid a few extra moments to compose himself, adjust to a new presence.  

               Spencer exhales in a rush. “No, it’s my fault. Just wasn’t paying attention.” He turns back to his mess, dumping the too-full coffee down the sink, throwing away the soggy napkins.

               Alvez edges over to the counter and leans his hip against it. “Rough night?” he asks softly. Not imposing, a take-it-or-leave-it inquiry.

               Reid takes it. He nods and breathes a little harder. His hand twitches, desperate to press its heel into his socket, assuage the fuzzy itch behind his eye and the budding headache. But Luke already knows that tell, he reflects with infinitesimal bitterness, with negligible resentment.

               “I know the signs.” Luke appraises him. “Nightmares?”

               “Yeah.” He hates how his voice croaks and cracks. He clears his throat. “I look pretty bad, don’t I?”

               Luke shakes his head, forehead creasing, brow furrowing with compassion. “That’s not it. Just around your eyes—I can tell. But you _are_ sleeping, and that’s good. It might not feel like it right now, but it is.”

               Spencer nods. It must appear a little dull, unconvincing, lackluster because Luke slides a bit closer. Imperceptibly. But Reid’s been informed that he has quite the knack for perception and detail and observation. He notices.

               “I won’t pretend to understand your experience. I _can’t._ But if there’s anything I can do to help—”

               “Thanks.” He means that. He even manages a smile that’s not altogether fake. 

* * *

               He lasts thirteen days, fourteen hours, and twenty-six minutes before he takes the bait. 

               It’s late. Past eleven on a Friday night. The timing is risky and inconvenient, something he’s relying on. Because if Luke _does_ answer and _is_ unpreoccupied, then Spencer stands a chance. Discounting the possibility that they might get called back into the office at any moment, of course.

               He calls. Fidgets and worries and paces. Gnaws on his lower lip.

               “Reid? Are you alright?”

               Spencer covers his mouth to smother the relieved, hysterical bubbling of laughter. “Yeah. I’m so sorry to bother you this late.” God, he's a mess.

               “It’s no problem. What’s going on?”

               The faint static over the line tickles his ear. He's using his rotary, twirling his finger through the spiral cord.

               “Um. There is something you can do for me.” He squeezes his eyes closed and hopes, _hopes_ that Luke will pick up where they left off in the breakroom. It’s irrational and a little unfair to expect, he's aware. But he needs it.

               After a beat of silence, Alvez replies, “Name it.”

               Reid’s eyes prickle and burn with tears, he’s so grateful. “Come over. Please. I know it’s last-minute and—”

               He can hear the forbearing smile in Luke’s voice that suggests he’s being ridiculous. “Give me half an hour, Reid.”

               Meanwhile, he tidies his apartment, moving stacks of books off of furniture and trying to cram them onto already-above-capacity bookshelves, gathering endless, empty coffee mugs and placing them in the sink. It’s clean, if a little cluttered, and it’ll have to do.

               Next, he looks at himself, swathed in matching pajama top and bottoms and a robe. He plucks at the flannel housecoat and sighs. If Luke doesn’t know he’s a dork already, then it can’t be helped.

               Luke arrives in dark jeans and boots, his typical work attire, except the shirt’s a little more casual, a plain tee instead of his usual polo or button-down. The brief modicum of comfort gained from seeing Alvez similarly underdressed is dashed almost immediately by the realization that Luke looks good all the damn time, without even trying.

               “Thanks for coming. Sorry, again, about the hour,” he greets, ushering Luke through the front door. 

               “It’s okay.” Luke scans the apartment with apparent fondness. “I love your place. It suits you to a tee, man. Cozy, a little outdated but romantic, a lot of charm.”

               Reid pushes hair out of his face, flushing hot underneath his clothes. Practically melting from a tame, roundabout compliment. “Any coffee? Or water? I might have juice.” He’s ready to dart to the kitchen to check, but Alvez catches his hand. Lets it slip away a split second later.

               “I’m good. But thanks.” Luke’s mouth slides into that playful, benevolent smirk that always seems to be only a muscle-twitch away. “Should we sit down?”

               “I think I'd rather stand, but make yourself comfortable.”

               Luke doesn’t move either, apart from cocking his head and dipping his eyes towards the floor. No, not the floor—too high. Oh. His hands.

               They're doing it again. Jittering. Spasming with the intense compulsion to knead his orbit. Alvez’s stare disarms him, urges him to hide his traitorous extremities before he remembers that these pants have no pockets, leaving his fingers to fumble and grope uselessly along his legs. In utter disgrace, he settles for wrapping them around his middle and discreetly clears his throat.

               Luke must recognize the warning in his eyes that tells him to leave it alone. All he says is, “You don’t have to be nervous,” barely above a whisper, gaze searching and open and face full of almost unbearable tenderness. “I know why you called.”

               “And you still came?” He curls his fingers tighter around his ribs, casting a helpless glance around his apartment, any excuse not to look at his teammate.

               “You called.” As if it were that simple. As if that paltry explanation justifies his behavior.

               Luke steps closer, adding, “You’re devastatingly cute when you’re confused, Dr. Reid. Has anyone ever told you that?”

               Startled, and feeling hopelessly deficient in his nightclothes and socked feet, Spencer gulps. “I’ve been called ‘cute’ before. In passing. ‘Cute’ in the way that little brothers are cute. Sexlessly cute. Innocuously cute.”

               Luke sucks his plump bottom lip into his mouth, eyes now squinted and assessing. “Not quite what I meant.”

               The adrenaline turns his body on autopilot, forces his feet to stumble forwards and commit to his impulses without deliberation. He quivers from the closeness, the near-contact. Touch ordinarily presents a challenge for him, and this isn’t like the hugs he allows from loved ones. It'll be prolonged, sustained.

               The spectacular view is worth the anxiety. The heartbreaking crease in the full, lower lip. The dark hair, thick curls so lush and shiny they almost look oiled. The powerful jaw, the endearingly crooked bottom incisor.

               His hands creep like wary animals, cupping Luke’s bearded face and pressing forward with a boldness so unbeknownst to himself that he feels detached from the movement. Until their mouths meet, and neurons spark and crackle and fire, and he's slammed back into his body, into the present, into nowness.

               The longing and fear and desperation necessitate deep, heavy kisses, slow drags of their lips, languid glides of their tongues. Drawing breath is exhausting, sedating, the air thick and sweltering and humid between them.

               Alvez hums into his mouth and gathers him close, perfects his grip, and walks them into the nearest piece of furniture: Reid’s desk.

               His stomach flips when Luke lifts him—like he’s weightless—and perches him on the edge so he can sit and curl his legs around Luke’s thighs.

               “Look at that mouth,” Luke gasps, breaking for air and launching into a chuckle. “Sweet pink. Jesus, Reid.”

               The blush paints his face, another splash of color amidst the beard burn. His lips are tingling and swollen, sensitive. He’s overheated in all his clothes, short of breath, sinking farther into a dense, lusty torpor. “Keep going. Please. Please, I—” His legs wrap tighter, coaxing Luke closer into the spread of his body, aching for soft mouth and hard cock.

               “Oh,” he moans softly when their cocks rub together through their pants. Luke twists purposefully gentle fingers in his hair and devours his mouth.

               “You feel incredible,” Spencer breathes, awed. His hands scrabble along Luke’s solid back, sturdy sides, thick waist until he’s ready to keen. He’s petrified and intoxicated by turns at how comfortable he feels, how safe, when he’s caged in by Luke’s body.

               “Can I take some of this off?” Alvez gestures to the pajamas, tucking Reid's hair behind his ear so he can mouth at his pulse and Adam's apple.

               “Okay.” He barely recognizes what he’s saying. _Sure. Whatever. Anything. Everything. Okay._

               Together, they ease him out of his robe, socks, pants, underwear. Luke doesn’t miss the flash of panic that crosses his face at the prospect of total exposure this early, so soon. He unbuttons and parts Reid’s pajama top, grazing his sides and skirting his nipples in a tease, but otherwise leaves it alone.

               Luke groans against his throat, the vibrations raising goosebumps, as he caresses his thighs and clutches the handholds of his hipbones. “You’ve been holding out on me, Reid.” It’s an accusation without any bite. Spoken in a way that insinuates Spencer’s been harboring a well-kept secret until now.

               “About what?” he pants, distracted, toes curling at the end of dangling legs. He gets a delicious thrill from squirming naked on a desk he uses every day, from leaving the more innocent areas of his body covered while the private, scandalous ones are bared for hungry eyefuls. He shocks himself, with this appetite for mild obscenity, with how much he likes the inequality of Luke’s clothes against his own nudity.

               “You’re slim, no denying that. But you’ve got some meat on your bones. Look at these _thighs_.” Luke drops to his knees, sounding genuinely _distressed,_ face now level with the desk’s edge. It’s ludicrous, is what it is.

               The sight punches a shocked whimper out of him. “You don’t have t—”

               “ _Querido_ , I want to. You don't know how long I've wanted to.” Alvez kisses the inside of each knee before he drapes Spencer’s legs over his shoulders. Pupils dilated, Luke’s sweet disposition darkens slightly as he places a wide, open-mouthed bite on Reid's inner thigh. Hard enough that it stings and pulses for a few beats but not savage enough to imprint or bruise.

               Well, no one's ever bitten him before. Kisses themselves were scarce before tonight. That being said, the noise that leaves his mouth is a yelping, mewling hybrid. His resultant mortification is cut off by the ruthless, sucking kisses that inch up his thighs, towards his brazen, straining cock.

               “Can I, Spencer?” Alvez murmurs with a gritty edge to his voice, looking up at him with—Reid finally understands the expression firsthand— _bedroom eyes_. Hooded, dark, languorously suggestive. “Can I suck you off?”

               His knuckles blanch against the desk’s dark wood as his hands clench around it. “Go ahead,” he quavers.

               Luke watches him. Watches as he licks a hot trail along the underside of Reid's cock and then engulfs the head, lips stretching to accommodate. He catches the way Spencer's mouth falls open and his eyes roll to the back of his head before fluttering shut.

               A shivery heat dances under Reid’s skin, overwhelming, making him want to crawl out of it. When it becomes too much, every muscle poised and tensed to withstand the barrage of pleasure, he finally slides a hand into Alvez’s hair, the perfect handful to ground him as he shakes apart.

               “Oh god,” he chokes, fingers tightening reflexively in Luke's hair. Alvez takes that sign of unabashed neediness as his cue to bob lower, take the rest of Reid into his mouth, into his _throat,_ swallowing.

               “I’m sorry,” Spencer breathes, slouching backwards onto his elbows, head hanging, too unstable to hold himself up any longer. A book digs in between his shoulder blades. “I don’t think I can last much longer. I’m sorry.” Luke only squeezes his thigh in reassurance, drawing back to tongue his slit and savor his precome, a thumb prodding and massaging his perineum in hard-pressed, slow circles.

               Distantly, Reid acknowledges the _smack_ of several teetering books as they slap the floor, pushed aside by his body as it slumps against the desktop and then rises in a tense arch. To his horror, he comes in Luke’s mouth, orgasm pulling him taut in every direction like a stringed puppet, his teammate not even trying to withdraw but instead gorging himself.

               Luke pulls him up with an outstretched hand until they’re back where they began: Alvez standing between his legs, kissing him dizzy. More rumpled than when they started, assuredly. Hair mussed and tangled, clothes in disarray (what little Reid’s still wearing is falling off his shoulders), the state of Luke's ruined mouth, dark-rose and slick and bruised. Most noticeably, the taste of their kisses, now tinged with a painfully obvious _otherness_ of flavor _._

               “I can’t believe you did that,” he admits, their foreheads resting together, eyes connected.

               “Which part?” Despite the teasing lilt to Luke’s voice, the question is genuine. A tactful approach to learn of any missteps and not repeat them.

               “You swallowed it— _me._ All of me.”

                Luke strokes his cheek, his words a sandpapery rasp, the product of a well-used throat. “Did that gross you out?”

               “On paper, it should’ve. The insanitariness _alone_. But watching you—no, it was anything but gross.” 

               “I won’t do it again if it makes you uncomfortable. We could use a condom next time, or you could come on me instead.”

               Spencer snorts, face burning hot. “No, um, I liked it. What we did. I liked it so much.” He chuckles, equal parts nervous and disbelieving, and shakes his head. “No one's ever done that for me before. Any of that.”

               It takes a few moments for the confession to totally settle with Luke. Warring emotions storm across his face—anger, concern, guilt—but he ultimately decides on, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

               “Because I didn’t want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me right now. Like I'm pitiful, fragile.”

               “Spencer, I’m not—”

               “I don’t need you to protect me. I'm not weak.”

               Luke exhales, shoulders sagging. “I know that. After the year you’ve had—and you’re still standing. Of course I know that, Reid. I’ve never doubted it.” Alvez presses a long kiss to his forehead, combing through his hair. “I just want us on the same page.”

               “I meant what I said.” And admits with a little hesitance, softly, “It was wonderful. I don’t regret it, and neither should you.” He grabs the front of Luke's t-shirt, tugging at it restlessly. “It won't be nearly as good, but maybe I could try. Do the same for you.”

               Luke nuzzles him, their noses brushing. “I’d love that but not tonight.” 

               The rejection feels like ice water injected into his veins. Breaths are hard to come by with his chest collapsing in on itself. Is this all he gets? Before the excuses start pouring out, the unmet glances, and then the awkward disentanglement. Has it all gone wrong so quickly?

               “Hey.” Luke lifts his chin, demands his eyes. “I’m not brushing you off. I just…have something else in mind. I’m a little nervous about it, actually.”

               Oh. Relief, the tentative, warm trickle of self-confidence bleeding back into him, but above all, confusion and curiosity. “Why would you be nervous? I won’t laugh.” It’s a solemn and heartfelt vow, especially from someone who’s been on the nasty, receiving end of a lot of laughter in his youth.

               Luke skims his knuckles pointedly down one of Reid’s thighs, biting his lip.            

               “Really?” Spencer’s voice leaps an octave in astonishment. Luke’s raised eyebrow reminds him of the promise he made seconds ago. “I’m not mocking. I just can’t believe any part of me is _that_ compelling.”

               Luke rolls his eyes and jerks him forward by the grip on his legs, definitely relishing the squeak he provokes from Reid. “Don’t even get me started.”

               Spencer's thigh is wedged between both of Alvez’s, and he lifts it just enough to rub him through his jeans.

               “ _Dios mío_ ,” Luke growls quietly. “You’re going to make me embarrass myself, Dr. Reid.”

               “I wish you would.” Spencer kisses his mouth before moving to his neck, and experimentally, suckling his earlobe.

               One hand claws into his hair, the other sinking into the deep muscle of his back, pressing them flush from hip to temple. Luke rides his thigh in sweet and slow undulations that bring his belly to brush against Reid’s spent cock. The friction of the denim against his oversensitive skin is a prickling, searing sort of pleasure that has him rocking forwards in counterpoint.

               “Hey, Luke?”

               “Hmm?”

               “Next time, could you fuck me?”

               The hand on his back attempts to mash their bodies together even more tightly, five points of intense pressure as he’s clutched close. Luke jolts, groans behind gnashed teeth, and stills.

               “You did that on purpose,” Luke mutters, gasping, nipping his jaw but following it with a kiss. “I've never heard such risqué language come out of your mouth.”

               His answering grin is coy. “Just testing a hypothesis.”

               Luke hums, arms braced against the desktop on either side of him. “Oh, I see. The perpetual scientist.” He leans in and kisses Spencer with such casual affection and endearment that it feels like they’ve always been like this, have always been _this_ to one another, without any discernible or traceable beginning.


End file.
